


Restless

by Linhiful



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Disassociation, Dom Mando, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Mando has a bit of a pain kink, Rape Aftermath, Reader-Insert, Smut, You do it tho baby, little bit of a brat too, rape revenge, reader has a bit of a praise kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:49:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23431957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linhiful/pseuds/Linhiful
Summary: His idea. It’s insane, but wholly and fully him. He has hunted. Killed. That was what he knew. That was the life that he lived, and as you trailed behind him, the sun sweltering above, you weren’t sure if it was you. It might not bring you peace, not really, because the nightmares will still be there, the deep wrenching, knees shaking panic might still be present whenever people get too close.But it’s something
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 94





	Restless

**Author's Note:**

> APRIL FOOLS. I originally started this fic to just be kinky pointless smut but somehow it transformed into this angsty rape-revenge plot so this is what you get, I guess. All assault is implied and nothing is explicit so I decided to not put in the archive warning, but if anyone wants me to please tell me and I will do it.
> 
> There is smut though and it's ALL CONSENSUAL so no worries on that.

Pain was the sensation that he was familiar with. If anyone got past his armour it is through force and violence and he can only respond back in kind. As the pain blossoms beneath the beskar he can only grit his teeth through the pain. He can not stop regardless of how bad it is. If he wavers it can only be for a moment.

Maybe that is why as you struggle in his arms, trapped against his chest, one of your elbows digging painfully between the slits of his armor, he allows it. Welcomes it, the pain is light, warm even, and he responds by tightening his hold around you.

You wheeze, the breath knocked completely out of you, and you squirm as much as you can in the iron grip of a Mandalorian. “You’ve forgotten everything I’ve taught you.” He says it calmly, the distortion from his modulator not enough to cut through the disappointment that wells up in your chest. 

Maker, he doesn’t even have to try. You don’t respond, only squirm even harder, legs kicking out to try to connect to anything, really, but all it does it clank uncomfortably into his armour and your heels throb from the force.

You bite back the impulse to whine. His entire presence engulfs you, and even though you can only see his massive arms slithered across your chest, it is  **him** . All  **him** . Only  **him** . You aren’t on the hull of the Razor Crest, can’t hear the familiar humming of the ship that you’ve come to know as home. You are in the sand, tears streaming down your face, and tight unfamiliar hands reaching down every inch of you. 

You force yourself to swallow down the rising panic in your chest, your breath coming out in short pants. It’s getting harder and harder with each sharp inhale and you can feel the tears already falling down your face. He can’t feel it, not through the thick layers of cloth and durasteel that surrounds him, but he can see you fall limp in his arms, can feel the slight shaking rattling against his clothed skin, and he isn’t sure what this sensation is as he loosens his grip.

He says nothing as he cradles you instead. You rest your head against the space between his pauldron and his neck, and even though the bottom of his helm cuts uncomfortable into your cheek, you take a slow deep breath. He smells of earth and smoke, and maker, it is only  _ him _ surrounding you and it’s  _ different.  _

You open your mouth, trying to find the words to apologize, some excuse, some reason, but your throat tightens and all that comes out is a small whimper. He offers no words of comfort, but you prefer this silence. It is familiar. Comforting.  _ Him _ . 

Instead the hand that cradles your head runs through your hair, his thumb rubbing circles into your scalp. You aren’t sure if he was aware of what he is doing, but you take the comfort, bury your nose deeper into the fabric of his neck, and it doesn’t matter if the beskar digs deeper into your cheek, the pain grounding you into his arms. 

He pulls away when your shaking stops, though, and you tilt your face away, avoiding looking into the dark visor. You can feel the weight of his gaze, and even though you can’t see his eyes, they still see straight through you.

“I-- I’m sorry,” Somehow you feel heavier without his weight bearing down on you. You long to reach out and hold him again, but he wasn’t here for comfort and you knew that it was something that you couldn’t ask from him. 

“If--” he stops, hesitates for just a beat too long. “If you want to stop--”

“No!” You scramble to get back on your feet but instead you fall, tumbling back into the tangled pile of unworkable limbs. His hand jumps out, steadies your arm, but instead of pulling away, it stays, lingers. You swallow the lump in your throat, your voice coming out hoarse. “I’ll never get over this if we stop.”

You imagine the furrow in his brow on a blank face, but somehow you still see it clear as day. “It’s not working not.”

Your tongue knots because he is right. Because day after day he teaches you how to defend yourself, shows you the moves, and the moment he--whenever he--

You shut down. Again. The world around you begins to spin and the tears cloud your vision. The edges of your vision start to turn black, but it’s chased away by the hard clamp of his grip on your arm. It stings, the pain throbbing beneath his fingers, but it brings you back. 

“I have another idea.” He holds out a puck and you stare at it, hands trembling as you reach up to turn it on. 

The face flashed for just a moment before you smacked it out of his hands, clattering against the floor. He leaves it there, unmoving. He’ll wait for you to decide. 

Your heart feels like it was going to burst out of your chest.  _ inoutinoutinoutinout  _ How do you breath again?  _ InOutInOutInOut...In. Out. In. Out. _

You finally-- _ finally-- _ look straight into his helm where you know his eyes to be. You were still shaking, a quiver in your voice as you spoke. But you were tired. So kriffing tired of shaking and crying and spilling onto the floor. All it takes is for you to reach down to the puck and grasp it between your fingers before he is gone, footsteps retreating into the cockpit. 

You stay huddled on the floor, unable to untangle yourself. 

* * *

Your feet feel heavy, each step feels like it’s being weighed down the further you go. You aren’t sure if it’s the sand, the sinking of your feet feels like it’s going deeper and deeper with every step you make, or the long distance that Mando is making you travel. 

His idea. It’s insane, but wholly and fully him. He has hunted. Killed. That was what he knew. That was the life that he lived, and as you trailed behind him, the sun sweltering above, you weren’t sure if it was you. It might not bring you peace, not really, because the nightmares will still be there, the deep wrenching, knees shaking panic might still be present whenever people get too close. 

But it’s something. Maybe you can at least look upon their face and know that they were gone. You wouldn’t gaze out upon a road and imagine them walking towards you, the sneering faces looking down on you and holding you frozen. No escape. No--

“Stop thinking.” Mando’s steps never faltered, but his voice cut through your thoughts and you looked up at his broad back, the cape floating behind him against the wind that dusted sand across everything. 

You couldn’t imagine how hot it was underneath his armor, but he walked like he was moving the earth beneath him and his steps were so steady that it was like the ground was reaching up and creating the path for him. It wasn’t the first time you wondered if there was any sweat slicking his skin. If he felt more than he let on. You’ve seen flashes of him, the dark tanned skin blemished with blood when he drags the bodies back to the ship behind him. 

He’ll hold his side for a moment before he sees you clamoring down the steps, throwing the cold body into the carbonite. He straightens, nods his head at you as he tries to move past, but you’ve always been stronger than you look, especially for a man who's been worn down for days with no sleep and bleeding to death in front of your very eyes.

He makes a show to struggle, grunting as you hiss at him to sit his kriffing ass down or you’ll throw him into the carbonite yourself. He can’t hide the red blood staining the golden tips of his gloves and it sure as hell didn’t come from the dead blue blood he just iced.

You pull back the ripped fabric, whispering hushed apologizes as he grunts out in pain as it clings onto the blood and open flesh. “Where is the catarizor?” you ask and he points towards the corner near the fresher, still there from the last time you were in this same position. He doesn’t fight, knows that it is better to just let you help even if he can do it himself.

It’s for you, he tells himself. But he knows it’s for him too. That somehow it feels better when you do it. The pain still makes him grit his teeth and clench his fist, but all of his focus is on you and the furrowed brow as you make you way up the gash. You bite your lip, and under the helm, he does the same and wonders if you feel the same sting when his teeth dig into flesh. Wonders if you taste the same too.

It’ll leave a scar. Another amongst the countless that litter his body, unseen by anyone’s eyes. But he knows, in the few flashes in the fresher with himself and only himself, that the jagged lines he’s done on himself are darker, angrier than the straight clean lines you do. 

He’s panting by the time you are done, and you can hear it even through the modulator. Every single time afterward, you skim your fingers across marred flesh. It’s puckered, stinging and red and it hurts every time you touch it, but his skin tingles under your fingers. It’s the only chance you get, really, to feel his warm skin against yours.

He feels warm afterward, and it isn’t from the wound, not from the cauterization, and when you look up at him, your eyes watery with relief, you can’t see him smile back at you. You don’t know that his fingers ache to reach up and wipe away the tears. 

He settles for a low  _ thank you _ and his voice is thick and every time you think it is from the pain, but he knows that it’s not. 

And you have to be strong now. Even if you don’t feel it. Even if all of the strength you have goes into gripping the puck in your hand.

The Mandalorian held it out to you, his head tilted as he waited.  _ “Do you need to hold it?”  _ He asked, and you looked up at him from the same spot on the floor, and this time your fingers didn’t tremble when you reached up and grabbed it.

You needed that same certainty now. Even as your feet struggled with each sinking step through the sand, through the ache in your legs, worse even than the many times that you were thrown about the ship during training. 

The suns were starting to dip beneath the horizon when you reached the mouth of a small cave nestled at the base of a cliff. Peering inside behind Mando's broad back, you see the edges of the dwindling kindling of a fire. Three bodies were strewn about and your hand tightened around the puck as you felt the trembling of your hand.

_ Look at what we have here boys. _

The Mandalorian glanced back at you and you struggled down the knot in your throat. You stashed the puck into the pouch on your side and unclipped the blaster from it’s holster. 

You gave the slightest of nods and through the sheer force of will, your hands were steady and sure. The bodies didn’t move when you moved into the cave and you had a sinking feeling in your gut that this was all wrong. It was too easy, shouldn’t be this easy, that the years that you had spent struggling should be more satisfying than  _ this. _

The Mandalorian kicked one of the bodies over and it limply slumped against the sand. "Dead." Your heart thumped and you recognized his face but it wasn't **him** _.  _ Wasn’t the face that haunted your dreams at night, wasn’t the voice that you heard trailing behind you in the dark no matter where you were.

A part of you was relieved, for just a split second, because you didn’t know if you wanted him already dead, wasn’t sure if that would be just too  _ easy _ , or maybe you feared that the moment you set eyes on him, you’d shut down, break down in front of him and he could hurt you all over again.

And he’d know. He’d know that he haunted your dream. He’d know how much he affected you, and somehow that was even worse. 

“They’re all dead.” None of them were  **him** , but you recognized them, their twisted faces floating at the back of your mind, the back of your dreams, and you held no sympathy for their fates. 

“Do you know what killed them?” Mando shrugged, patting down the length of their bodies.

“Other bounty hunters maybe? The bounty is on him, so either they got him, or he escaped.”

“So where do we go from here?”

“Part of the job,” he says, nodding deeper towards the end of the cave. He doesn’t look back to see if you are following, and you don’t, for a moment. You stare down at the dead bodies, their empty eyes staring up into the ceiling. They are twisted in ways that people shouldn’t be, at least not humans, as far as you know. But maybe their outsides matched their insides now, and you burned their images into your brain, made sure you remembered each and every one of them.

And maybe, hopefully, you’d see this in your dreams instead. 

The air grew colder, moist, the further into the cave you went. The light drifted further away until you were encased in complete darkness. The Mandalorian has no issue continuing forward in the dark, but you stumbled into his back, heart racing in a panic the moment you lost your eyesight.

You cling onto his hand, and while you couldn’t see his reaction, you felt him tighten his grip, and immediately the panic eased out of your entire body. As long as he is with you, you are safe. 

He stopped so suddenly, you didn’t notice until you crashed into your back, nose buried into his cloak and almost getting tangled into it, but his hand automatically jerked out to steady you. 

“There’s a body here,” he says and you frown, gripping onto his hand even tighter as he cautiously moves farther ahead. “A bounty hunter.”

“Do you think he got away?” you asked, and you can feel him move beside you, letting you go for a brief moment and you pushed down the immediate whine that tried to escape your lips. You curled your fingers inside of yourself instead, could feel your nails digging into your palm, and the pain was enough to keep you grounded. 

“Don’t kriffing move.” It was  **his** voice, the one that haunted you at night.  **He** lived in your brain, sneered at everything you did, but it was nothing compared to hearing that low growl behind your ear, the barrel of the blaster pressed against your temple.

Instinctively you reached forward, tried to grasp at Mando’s hand but all you caught was air, and  **he** was louder than you remembered, the voice deep enough to yank at the fear simmering at the pit of your stomach, and it welled up into your throat and at any moment it was going to explode out of you. 

“I said, don’t kriffing move.”  **His** hands,  **his** dirty kriffing hands were touching you, wrenching your arm back behind you and even in fury you were frozen as he held you in place.

If it was even possible, you were no longer in your body, the air feels tight, constricting, and you tried to reach out to yourself, your frozen useless kriffing body, but you stood still, not even trembling in  **his** arms, but just, there.

And you were here, floating in a consciousness that you couldn’t understand, and maker your head hurt even though it was in front of you, and it was like you were moving in water even though you were standing still and it happened in a flash, the ringing of the blaster high in your ear, and in that brief moment of light, you saw a flash against beskar, and he was falling, falling, kriffing falling and you were just standing here and  _ kriffkriffkriff _ the blaster was no longer pressed against your head--

And you did it. You kriffing did it, you moved like kriffing water, a tidal wave instead of a stream and was it even you who grasp the knife tucked into the inside of your boot? You couldn’t feel the handle, heavy but so  _ so _ small in your hand, and was it your head that jerked back, slamming into that smug kriffing face. Even in the dark you could see it clear as day, his twisted smile above you, always above you. 

But you were falling, backwards, and it was wet, and suddenly you couldn’t breath, like you were drowning, and you were clawing for a way up, it felt like you were tearing everything apart and you weren’t sure if it was you or everything around you, and you tried to take a gasp of air but your lungs were burning, your whole body aching, and you couldn’t  _ see _ . The only thing you could hear was the pounding in your ears, your breath trying to escape and--

Hands grasped at you, pulling you up, and suddenly everything rushed back at once, and you were covered, wet with something you couldn’t see, but it was you, again, you think, sitting in the sand, the grit digging into your skin. It was sticky, falling off in clumps as familiar hands pressed against your sides, frantic but soft, and it took everything in you to not just collapse into his arms.

“Are you okay?” You tried to nod, knew that Mando would see in the pitch darkness, and it was enough to feel him there. You tried to look around, squint your eyes as if that would make anything brighter, to catch a glimpse of shadows, but everything was just darkness and sand. 

“He’s dead.” Your fingers curled up against the sand, digging into the grit and dirt and you could only barely acknowledge the stinging on your fingertips.

“He’s dead?” You released the earth and grabbed onto the only thing that could make you feel grounded in this moment. 

“You killed him.” 

* * *

You are covered in  **his** blood. You can still feel the weight of the knife in your hand, feel the warm blood gushing out of his bodies against your skin. 

You've killed. For the first time. 

You stayed under the spray for so long the water runs cold and the pink of  **his** blood no longer infects the water by your feet. It was the last trace of  **him** on you and in that moment you finally felt free. 

The door slides open and you jump, breath hitched in panic until you hear the familiar voice through the modulator. "It's me." There is a pause and you are aware that you are naked and fully exposed in front of him, but you don’t move to cover yourself. It didn’t matter at this point, he’s already seen more of you than anyone else you’ve ever known. “You’ve been in here for a while.” 

“I’m sorry.” You say and your hand slips as you reach out to turn off the water. You're shivering so hard that you are sure that he can see it from where he stands. 

“Don’t,” he says, and you pause as he hesitates. “It’s okay. I was just…”

Worried. It goes unsaid but you smile at him anyways. The chill settles against your skin once it is just the air that blankets you, and honestly you weren’t sure how long it’s been underneath the water. Mando does not move even as you reach over to pull your tunic over your head, the wet fabric clinging onto your skin. You are still dripping as you step out and reach up to lightly push against his breastplate.

“I’m fine,” you say but he doesn’t move aside. He is hard as a rock, even underneath the beskar, and he doesn’t move if he doesn’t want to. 

“It’s okay if you're not,” he says and that is all you need as your head falls against his shoulder right in between the metal. Even though the thick layers of cloth and beskar, his warmth sears into your skin and maybe this time you shiver for a different reason. You don’t have enough time to look up before he has his cloak unclipped and wrapped around you.

You stay wrapped up in his scent, his warm covering every inch of you and he doesn’t say a word as you clutch onto his hand even as you move out of the fresher, water leaving a trail behind you. You tug him to the cot, too small to hold either of you at the same time. He always lets you have it, settling into the chair of the cockpit or the ground for sleep, but you need him here, this time, pulling him down with you until you are sitting side by side. 

"The worst part is they took this from me." The Mandalorian only responds with a tilt of his head, and you feel his stare on your hands as you tangle your fingers with his. You watch him as you tug on the fingers of his gloves, the leather worn and soft from use.

He lets you, doesn’t move except for a twitch of his fingers as you slowly slide the glove off from his hands. His skin is soft, softer than you would imagine them to be for a man like him. Covered for most of his life, you trace the lines in his palm, marveling at the silk underneath your fingertips.

“This used to mean nothing,” you say as you lace your fingers with his. He’s warm, so _ so  _ warm. “Did it everyday without a thought. But then it felt wrong. Like I was wrong. Or just, everything hurt so much and I couldn’t explain why.” He closes his hands on yours and you close your eyes and you want to lean into him. You want to feel his soft skin against you everywhere. You wanted the piece of him that no one saw. Just this moment between the two of you. This didn’t mean nothing. Touching him could never mean nothing. 

“I was so afraid of everything afterward. Nothing was safe. No one was safe. If they could do that to me, then who else could? Why was I so weak? Why didn’t anyone save me? Wh--” 

You stopped yourself, lip clenched between your teeth so hard you were sure you cut through flesh and you gripped his hands just as hard. He doesn’t say anything but he rubs the back of your hand with his bare thumb and your skin feels like it is on fire, like little zaps of electricity across your hands. 

“This doesn’t feel like nothing anymore. It means everything. You understand, don’t you?” For a second, it was like you could feel a pulse through his hand, but you weren’t sure if that was his or yours.

“You. You make me feel safe. Just you. No one else.” You catch a noise through his modulator that you couldn’t quite recognize, maybe something between a groan and a whine but he untangles his hands from yours and it  _ aches _ to have him apart from you but he brings those soft beautiful hands up to your face instead. 

He touches your cheek, first, with his thumbs, tracing around the curve of it first before he cups his hands underneath the curve of your chin. His hands are so big they engulf you, his fingers brushing against your hair and he makes that noise, but it’s louder now, and his modulator crackles as it tries to contain the  _ want  _ that his armor is supposed to suppress. 

“I haven’t touched anyone in years.” And at this moment it is only you and him. Not on the Razer Crest, the floor not rumbling beneath you, the only thing you can feel is his finger stroking along your hairline and the soft mews that escape your lips. “I can’t give you everything you want. But this,” he moves his hands further into your hair, burrows into it, and you can almost see the wonder through his visor at how soft your hair is. “I can give you this.”

“I just want you. Just the way you are.” And he shakes his head, and you wonder if there is anything you could ever do to prove he was enough. This was enough. The beskar was him, here on this ship, moving from place to place, you wouldn’t change any of it for anything. 

“I can’t give you more. No living being has seen me since I was a boy.” You reach your hand up and trace the visor of his helm and you wonder if he sees the smudges your fingers smear across the front and a small part of you blossoms at seeing your mark against something so seemingly untouchable.

“I don’t have to see you,” you say, almost too soft for him to hear, but the hitch in his breath was too unmistakable. “I just want to feel you.” 

“I can’t ask that of you.” He pauses, enough for you to lean forward until your forehead rests against the front of his helm and your hands are so small they only cover a fraction of his. 

“You don’t have to.” And you bring his hands up to your lips and place a gentle kiss on each fingertip. The noise Mando makes is wrecked, a whine that you’ve never heard before and you wanted to see what other noises you could bring out of him. 

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” it floats out of the beskar, quieter than you’ve ever heard him but it rumbles in his chest, the modulator caught just enough for it to ring in your ears. Your face flushes, and Mando revels in how warm you are against his skin, and he wanted to feel more, wanted to consume every inch of you. 

He slides his hand down from your face to your neck, and a small part of him wanted to wrap his hands around your throat, but he couldn’t do that, not to you, not even if he finger ached to wrap themselves around the slender column of your neck. That side of him didn’t belong in this space, not with you. Instead, he slowly moved down your chest, cupped the softest parts of you, bunching the fabric beneath his hand in a silent question. 

You responded with a moan, body aching all over for his touch, and you nod, not trusting your voice. You arch your breast harder into his hand, wanting to rub your entire body across his armour like a cat in heat, and you settle for reaching for the hem of your tunic, but he swats your hand away before you have a chance.

He pulls the cloth slowly off your body as if he didn’t just see you bare moments before. Like he was unwrapping a present and was in awe of what was underneath. You squirm, face flushing in embarrassment, and you pull away just an inch, and immediately, you knew Mando did not like that. 

“Stay still,” he scolded, and you immediately froze, face burning an even deeper red, and maker, you wanted to hear that again. Anything, really, as long as he said it like  _ that. _ He threw your tunic to the side, not caring where it landed, and the moment you were bare in front of him, your hands shot up to your chest to cover yourself. This time it wasn’t out of embarrassment or shame, no, you wanted to know what he would do. You wanted to hear that voice again. You wanted him to make you do as he said. 

“I said,” he growled in a voice that he usually reserved exclusively for boundaries, “ _ stay still _ .” He took your hands, wrenched them behind you and slapped them on the cot. “ _ Don’t move.”  _ He was looming over you, his entire presence engulfing you and you moaned and arched up to rub against him as far as you could without moving your hands. 

The Mandalorian tilted his head for just a moment and cupped a breast in his hand, slowly and gently rubbing a nipple underneath his thumb. “Oh?” he asked, pressing down harder and harder as he spoke. “Do you like this?” You responded with a moan, pressed yourself harder into his hands, throwing your head back as little tingles of pleasure ran through your body. He pinched, rolling the nub between his fingers, and the shocks of pain ran pleasure throughout your entire body.

You couldn’t help but squirm, but never once did your hands leave the bed. “What a good girl,” he said, and kriff, hearing  _ that _ was  _ everything _ , and maker, you’d literally do anything he told you if he would just  _ keep that up.  _ “Do you...?” he asks, and he twists your nipple even harder in his fingers and  _ pulls _ and kriff you  _ almost _ reached up to stop him, but you gripped the cot so hard you think you might shred it underneath your hands if your nails were sharp enough. But you couldn’t move your hands. You had to be a good girl. 

“Do you like this?” he asked again, never releasing the pressure, and maker, it hurt, stung so bad that you couldn’t stop the whine that escaped your lips, but you couldn’t deny the wetness between your legs, the empty ache that  _ throbbed _ .

It came out through gritted teeth, panting through the pain and pleasure, and it was probably the most beautiful thing Mando has even heard come through your lips. “Yes,” you whine, and you rub your leg up his, glide it along his armor, into his lap, and you have to arch your back to reach. Mando never lets go, just watches as you move, pressing down hard on your nipple, and the rebellion swells up in your chest. You want him like this, in the cusp of pain and pleasure, too blissed out to think of anything but how it feels.

You thank the maker that he doesn’t wear a codpiece, but when you press down with the pad of your foot, it is all hardness and  _ oh kriff _ it’s  **big** . How have you never noticed this before? Mando grunts, thrust his hips at your foot and moans even louder when you press down even harder. He releases you, for just a second, and you are only allowed one moment of breath before he switches to the other breasts, palming your softness before he grasps at the nub and holds you on the edge. 

He takes your foot, pushes you back until you are lying flat on the cot, leg lifted straight into the air and he just stops and stares. You don’t know where he is looking, and that makes your whole body light up. Was it at the wetness between your legs? Could he see how badly you ached for him? Or was it your breasts? Flushed red from his fingers, could he see how they throbbed from the pain? Could he tell that you wanted  _ more? _

“You’re beautiful,” he says, trailing his hand down from your breast and touching you like you could break any moment, and for some reason, that touch tingles even harder against your skin. He moans even louder than you do when he reaches your wetness, and he smothers his fingers in it, pressing just his fingertips inside of you before he pulls away, completely soaked in your desire and he rubs it everywhere, tracing your entrance before he taps at your clit. 

Your leg twitches in his hand and a loud moan escapes from your lips that you try to smother with your hands, but Mando growls so loud that it crackles inside his helmet and immediately you pull your hands away. “You don’t move unless I tell you to,” he barks, and obediently you slam your arms above you, gripping at the pipe over your head and you dig your fingers as hard as you can into the durasteel. 

Mando moves his fingers against your clit faster, stopping every once and a while to swipe across your entrance, to dip into your wetness, and you can hear him panting hard in his helmet and you want to palm him through his pants, but all you can do is writhe and scream in his arms as you get closer and closer to the edge.

He touches you sloppily with absolutely no rhythm, but it was better than anything else you’ve ever felt. Better than the quickies behind cantina alleyways with nameless faces you have since forgotten, better than the short term lovers on planets you’ve only visited for weeks, maybe days at a time. His touch was the only thing that mattered, the only thing that could chase everything else away. You could hear him muttering under his breath, just loud enough for the modulator to catch in that raw voice of his.  _ So soft. So kriffing soft. So wet. Wanna feel you everywhere. _

But it was like he knew how close you were, the kriffing tease, and he pulled away right as you were at the cusp, and he pulls down his pants just long enough to release his cock and oh  _ maker _ it was bigger than you thought and you mouth salivated at the thought of it inside you. He takes his hand, soaked in your wetness, and this time  _ you _ moan louder than he does when he takes it to his cock, pumps himself with your slick, and you thrust your hips at him,  _ aching _ for his attention back on you.

“So needy,” he says, and he grabs one of your hands gripped so tight on the pipe he had to pry it away. He loved seeing you like this, completely laid out for him and so  _ needy _ for him, for his touch, and only he could give you what you needed. You latch onto his dick the moment he sets your hand on it, and he’s already so wet with you, your hand glides on his hardness easily. He grunts, thrusting hard into your fist, and if your hand felt this good, he couldn’t imagine how good it would be to be inside you.

“Please,” you whine, and he chuckles, leaning down to hover over you, and he makes sure that your touch never leaves his dick, placing a hand over yours and tightening your hold on him until it almost hurts, but maker, it felt so good. He releases your hand, but you don’t loosen your grip, not even an ounce, and pumps it with a twist of your wrist. Mando doesn’t even try to smother the moan that crackles through the helm, releasing your hand in favor of burying it into your hair.

“Good girls ask for what they want,” he says as he tugs your face up to look at him, and you gasp in surprise, try to find his eyes through the T-visor of his helm, but all you see is your own face, flushed and utterly wrecked reflected back at you.

“I want you inside me,” you beg, pumping his heavy cock harder and faster in your hand. “Please, oh kriff, please, I want you so bad.” 

“Good girl,” he says, as he releases your hair, and you fall back on the cot, and your hand falters when his fingers dip inside of you, and oh kriff, one finger already fills you up, and he thrusts into you slowly at first, but it still isn’t enough. 

“Your cock,” you sob, “please, I want your cock.” You thrust your hips back on his fingers, and you swear that you see stars even locked up in this dim, tiny room.

“Not yet,” he says, slipping one more finger inside of you, and he is thrusting harder into you, following the rhythm of your hand. “I want you to cum first.” You scream, pumping his dick harder and faster and he follows suit, and you couldn’t stop yourself this time, didn’t even want to. Your grip on his dick tightens and Mando moans at the sting of pleasure that jolts through him, but you didn’t even notice because you are cumming, tight on his fingers, and nothing mattered but him inside of you.

He gives a few more pumps of his hand, wouldn’t wipe the smirk off his face even if people  _ could _ see his face as you spasm around him, and his fingers are soaked. He wonders if you would notice if he slips his fingers under his helmet to taste you. He wanted to smell you, to feel you everywhere on him, but he knew that he couldn’t. Not right now, at least, while he was so overwhelmed by you that he would give you anything if you would just ask for it. 

Instead, he pries your fingers off of him, settles himself next to you as well as he could in this small cot as you try to catch your breath. You smile at him in a way that he has never seen before, a little dreamy and dazed, but so utterly satisfied as you turn to face him and throw a leg over his hip as you nuzzle by his side.

“Hey,” you say in a breathless whisper and you are so  _ wet,  _ so  _ slick _ as you slide your pussy up and down the length of his dick, and he had no doubt that you knew exactly what you were doing to him. 

He responds by grabbing you leg, pulling you hard into his chest, and the chill of his armor felt great against your flushed body, but you couldn’t even think about that before he is grinding himself against the folds of your pussy, head pressing into your overly sensitive clit, and he grunts out a reply. “Is this what you want?”

And you nod, as fast as you can, moaning into his shoulder as you pull him as close as you can, arms wrapped around to his back. He buries his head into your shoulder and he wonder if you know how badly he wants to kiss you, how much he wants to taste every inch of you, but he settles for thrusting, softly, so  _ so  _ softly into you, and he wants to capture that gasp into his ear, wants to hear it over and over again until the end of his days. 

Mando is big, holy maker, he is hard, and as he stretches you beyond anything you are used to, you are panting, and it hurts, but in a good way, and you just want him to keep going deeper and deeper into you. And he does, further than you thought was possible, and when he is fully seated inside of you, it is like there is no space left, nothing but him and you, tangled together in this moment. 

You wonder if he knows how badly you want to kiss him, to feel him all over, and you do, right onto his helm, you pepper kisses all across the visor and he moans, thrusts steadily inside of you, quickening the pace just a little as you reach as many parts of him as you can. 

The beskar is him, and you kiss each pauldron, the chest plate, and ending back at his visor, and he rolls you over onto you back without slipping outs, takes hold of each fleshy cheek of your backside, and impales you further on his cock and you almost choke on nothing as you try to take a breath. 

“Tell me if I’m going too rough,” and you gulp and nod, and Mando tilts his head as if he doesn’t believe you, but he tightens his hold on each cheek and that was the only warning you get before he is pounding into you, and you can’t even smother your scream as all you can do is lay there and take his fat cock inside of you. 

He is tearing you apart and putting you back together, the pressure already rising deep inside of you, and you can barely let out his name before you start up again. _Mandomandomandohkriffdon’tstoppleasedon’tstop_

He isn’t quiet, not now as he is inside of you and buried in warmth and pleasure, he doesn’t pay attention to anything as he thrust into you, and all he can feel is his cock wrapped in the tightest, slickest thing he’s ever felt in his life. He wants to memorize your face, the way his name sounds on your lips, he wants to consume all of you and never leave.  _ youfeelsogoodsotightIwanttobeinsideofyouforever _

You cum on his cock with a high pitch scream, and he doesn’t stop thrusting even as you are squirming in his lap, in fact, it makes him thrust into you even harder, and you are soaking him, hands clawing down his clothed back, and even through the thick fabric, he can feel the sting of your nails digging into his skin. 

You even bite into his neck, right in between the helm and pauldron, and all you get is cloth, but it’s enough to imagine your mark on his skin, and he is lost in your warmth. He floods you, cumming deep inside of you, but you are too lost in ecstasy to notice, your whole body arching underneath him. 

You come back to consciousness with his hand stroking through your hair, still buried to the hilt inside of you. He is fully resting on you, but it was warm, comforting, even as you are smothered underneath his weight.

You stroke his back, listen to his heavy breathing, and you wonder if he can hear the heavy beating of your heart through his helm. You wonder if you pressed down hard enough on his chest, if you could feel his. You lay there, entangled with each other until you drift off into sleep.

For the first time since you could remember, you dream of warmth and space. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumnlr at tumblr.com/linhiful


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